A Season in Hell IV

Words are turds so I don’t say a thing. I crawl back to my study, try to write Doctor Susan. I’m dying. Robert is at my throat. The word are misspelled, me on my knees using only one finger. Now the floor is sweeping me away, a magic carpet. Now I go limp, my head a Mr. Potato Head. Can’t hold a thought. Insanity is wordless. No brain, no speech.

My eyes flutter closed, stuck together with crazy glue. Now I stop breathing. Husband is kicking me around like a soccer ball. Game over, winner announced. How long will I lie here as more corpse than woman the way I was more corpse than child? The minutes are riddles and try as I might I can’t solve them. I’m silent now, dead silent, my body a sack of potatoes made to match my Mr. Potato Head. Will those potatoes be mashed? Will Dr. Robert Wolff gobble them up?

Filed under: Elizabeth Kirschner, Prose